Take a Walk in My Shoes
by brae679
Summary: Life isn't easy, not even in South Park. Story is better than the summary. REVIEW!
1. Losing the Battle

I take a look at myself in the mirror. Pulling up my shirt, I sigh in disgust. My stomach caves in, it's sunken in so much that you can count all of my ribs. My boxer-clad legs look like they're nothing more than bone, and my arms look the same. My pale blue veins are clearly visible through my nearly transparent skin. Bearing my teeth to the mirror, I see that they are beginning to turn yellow. The bags under my eyes are so dark it looks as if I haven't slept in years, I also feel like I haven't. In a desperate attempt to hide my grotesque body, I pull my old, tattered parka over my body. I pull the hood up over my dirty mass of blonde hair. My shoes are worn to the point that they have holes in them and they don't fit - at least without leaving bloody sores and blisters on my feet. I'm used to it by now, so I disregard the painful feeling of rubbing raw skin and tie the mangled shoes tightly. I take a swig of mouthwash. I'm not one for hygene, not that I have a choice, but I do enjoy having my teeth. With one more glance at the mirror, I notice that I look almost like a normal teenaged boy, minus the dirt on my clothes and the bags beneath my eyes.

Slowly and carefully, I creep my way to the back door of my family's barely-standing home and sneak out. My mother is insistant that I eat my breakfast; but the way I see it, the less I eat, the more Karen does.

I get to the bus stop where I stand with my so-called friends. They barely notice me, let alone talk to me. They think that I'm fine, they assume that I'm just quiet because it's in my nature. They didn't even notice that I had resumed wearing the old orange parka.

They probably didn't even realize my dad left my family, and I know they don't know how much worse things have gotten since. They haven't noticed that my mom is an alcoholic who barely takes the time to notice her kids, they don't know that my brother Kevin is locked up in some prison for trying to help my family. They can't see that I'm hungry, and they can't see that their poor jokes actually do hurt me. They just don't know anything about me anymore.

You see, my father left my family approximately six months ago. He said he couldn't put up with my mother anymore. About a year before he moved out, he stopped drinking and got a job. It shocked everyone. Somewhere along the lines, my mother got worse. None of us know what happened or why it did, but she began drinking more than I've ever seen a person drink. With my father gone and my mother in a constant drunken state, Kevin took up the responsibility of providing for Karen and I. However, he did it in the wrong ways. He shoplifted all of the food we ate and stole from the people that trusted him. But Kevin had a drug addiction, and when he was high, he just didn't think. He was reckless, he didn't seem to think he could get caught. But that's exactly what happened, he got caught for shoplifting _and_ being under the influence of drugs.

So that left me, Karen, and my deadbeat mother. I was left alone to care for a maniac depressive, alcoholic woman and a young child at the age of fifteen.

Now you can ask anyone at my school, I used to have some potential. I could have been something. Up until the time I was fifteen, I was on the football team and I got good grades. I was even in an advanced English class. However, when I was left as the man of the household, things changed drastically. I couldn't make it to football practice anymore, and my mother's constant needs kept me up almost all night. I would fall asleep in class, and I never had time for my homework. I became less and less social as the days went on. My friends began to give up hope and stopped communicating with me for the most part.

At school, I get very few concerned looks. Either I'm putting on a good front, or I'm invisible. I'm pretty sure that it's the latter. I think there are a few people that see it though, well honestly, I'm positive there's at least one person: Craig Tucker. He doesn't know I know what he's doing. Don't get me wrong, I fucking hate charity. I hate getting people's pity and free things just because I'm poor. As much as they think it'll make me feel better, I'm more ashamed than anything else. But, I mean, if someone is going to leave a bag full of food in my gym locker, I'm not going to throw it away. Hell no. I take one or two of the snacks from the bag, and save the rest for my little sister at home.

You're probably wondering why I don't just go get a job. You see, being a McKormick, it isn't that easy. My family is known for alcoholism, drug use, domestic abuse, stealing, and being dirty. And in a small town like South Park, everyone knows everyone elses reputations and families. Needless to say, I won't be getting a job anywhere around here. Ever.

I walk home from school alone, no matter the weather. I can feel my feet bleeding, and I'm so exhausted that I just want to lie down on the snowy sidewalk and sleep for days.

I think of college once again. It's always been my dream to get into college. Almost every person in my class at South Park High School would be going to college. There are people like Kyle and Wendy that are extremely smart, and could probably get accepted into any college in America. There are people such as Stan, Craig, and Clyde: the jocks that are good enough that they get a free four year stay at Denver University. Token's and Bebe's parents have enough money to send five children to college. Kevin is going into some special effects company, Tweek is going to a fancy culinary school, and Butters is going to South Park Community College. They all have promising futures.

And then there are people like me. I blew it. I don't get another chance.

All they ever do is sit and complain about relationships, parents being unfair, getting grounded, and whatever other petty drama they're involved in. All I ever do is sit and daydream that I'm one of them. I know that will never happen.

I can feel myself growing weaker by the day. I'm completely overwhelmed with exhaustion, but I can no longer sleep. Standing up has become a challenge for me, as well as walking to and from school. I can't focus on anything. My body fat, as well as my muscle, is almost completely gone. It seems as if I'm always in a vertigo. The room spins as I stand and disappears as I sit. Not literally, it's just that as soon as I sit down, I'm spacing out. I haven't heard a single word a teacher has spoken in nearly two weeks. I feel like I'm a zombie, walking around in a swarm of people that don't know, too distant and too far gone to care. The dark circles under my eyes are a sickening mixture of purple with black; they give the impression that someone beat me senseless. In a way, I'm becoming numb. It seems as if I'm no longer hungry, as if I'm no longer physically inable.

I'm sitting by myself, once again, staring down at the table as if it's the most interesting thing I'd ever seen. I didn't even notice the noirette sit down, and I hadn't noticed him speaking to me. "-enny? Kenny? Are you okay?" I nod my head weakly, sad smile on my face. "Listen, Kenny. I know what's going on with you. If you need anything, you can come to me."

I can hardly manage words, but finally I speak, "I'm fine, really, Craig." Another sad smile, not at all convincing.

"Alright, I'm sorry for trying to help you, Kenny. But I've always been concerned about you. I'm sorry if you don't want my help, but the offer's still up. I'll talk to you tomorrow, Ken. Try to sleep well, you look sick."

"Thanks, Craig. I will, I promise." I manage a real smile. With this, the black-haired boy stands and walks away. This is the first time I've seen the 'bad-ass' Craig Tucker phased by anything.

It's another long, sleepless night for me. I lie awake and count the yellowed tiles on my ceiling. There is no sound, with the exception of my not-so-steady breathing and the menacing growls of my stomach. I've never felt pain like this before. I have to use all of my strength to double over and clutch my stomach. The feeling is indescribable, I can hardly hear my thoughts over the roar of my stomach. _I'm sorry, Craig, I can't keep your promise._ I can barely move, and I can't make a sound. I'm frozen. Then suddenly, I'm numb. I'm completely pain-free for the first time in years. _Is this what death feels like? _My consciousness begins to fade, flickering in and out. I try to fight it, I want to live. _Please, please let Karen be okay when I'm gone._ I'm giving up the fight. This is a war I just can't win. I finally stop breathing, and the rhythmic beating of my heart stops, never to beat again.

_God, I'm coming home._


	2. should i?

Can I get some reviews, please?  
I want to keep writing this, but the lack of reviews has me discouraged.


	3. My Deadly Addiction

**A/N: I don't know if I like the way this turned out. I'm leaning towards no. But anyways, please please _please_ review. :)**

_I hate it, but I love it. The sense of pure exctacy when I'm under the influence, the painless days and long, crazy nights. I hate the way I became so useless, yet I love the way it makes me feel._

_It's sickening._

_Really, I'm seventeen years old, and I can't remember the last time I was sober. Fuck, I can't even remember last night. One night, I'll be partying with my friends or out with some random people; the next morning, I don't remember anything at all. I have no explanation to my broken items, the weird situations I find myself in, the random chicks passed out in the living room. But, hey, ten minutes of pondering and there I am, drinking or smoking again. _

_During the day, I do it just enough to get my by; at night, it's a completely different story. _

_There are times when I have waken up in the hospital, full of tubes and covered in cuts; and there are also the times when I'm told by my best friend Craig that I had to get my stomach pumped. Sure, it happens to a lot of people, but I can assure you, it happens to me more. The majority of the nurses and psychologists know me by name. _

_I like to have fun, and I like to party. But I don't like the way I get out of control. I don't like waking up in the hospital with my parents crying by my side. I don't like having no money to do anything else, because I'm too busy feeding my addiction to save money._

_My friends all tell me they're worried about me. They tell me that I'm ruining my life, that I need to get out before it kills me... blah, blah, blah. It isn't like I'd never heard it before. They said they'd find a way to make me listen._

So now, here I am. Sitting here in complete boredom, shock, and irritation as my friends nag at me to stop. My own personal intervention.

Really, it isn't any of their business what I do and when I do it. It isn't like _they're_ perfect. They've all made their own mistakes. I bet if they tried this, they'd love it. But then again, maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they like to have control of their lives.

In some ways, I want to stop. But when I'm sober, I feel so powerless, so normal. Maybe in a way, it feels good. But I can't help it, I'm addicted.

I'm honestly shocked with all of them. It isn't like they seriously give a damn about me, yet they all look so concerned. Every single kid I've been friends with since the third grade is here. Some of them have red, puffy eyes; others won't even look at me.

At last, Craig breaks the silence, "Clyde, you're my best friend. You always have been my best friend. How can you sit and do that to yourself? You would have been so great! And you do it because 'it's fun.' Clyde, how could you be so selfish? Do you not see how much this is hurting all of us? I should have stopped you while I could, Clyde, I'm sorry."

Part of me just wants to cry. I mean, that's my best friend, the one that is never phased by anything. He's standing there, not making eye contact with anything, using hand gestures and stumbling over almost every word. However, a different part of me wants to storm off. Why is it any of his business, and why does he care so much? Does he not understand that this is _my_ life and I'll do what _I _want? However, I do neither. I sit and stare, blank expression and all, at my best friend who is at this point fumbling with a DVD player.

Someone in the corner (I think it's Stan) turns off the light. I don't know what they're planning. I hear laughter and young voices and I can almost swear my heart stopped beating.

On the screen is a video of me and my friends in preschool. It's Craig, Tweek, Kevin, Stan, Kyle, Cartman, Kenny, Butters, and me. We're sitting around, playing with small stuffed animals and toy cars. Most of the children were arguing over who got which toy, or who got to take what home; however, off to the left-hand side of the screen, you could see Craig and I sharing a toy car. We would take turns pushing it around the small track we had made on the ground. We both looked like we were having the time of our lives; laughing, talking, and pretending. _Why is he doing this to me?_

The next clip is of us before the first day of kindergarten. We were in the living room at my house, looking nervous yet calm at the same time. I was wearing my signature red jacket, and Craig had his navy blue jacket on with his matching blue and yello chullo. Sitting beside us was Craig's Red Racer bag along with my boring brown backpack. Craig looks more relaxed than I do, sitting with his arms crossed and his legs kicked up on the coffee table. I seemed to take notice to this, and with a confused glance I ask him, "Aren't you nervous, Cwaig?" He turns his head to look in my direction, and a grin spreads across his face. "A wittle. But as long as I have my best fwiend there to pway wif me I'll be fine."

Those last words are still ringing in my head as the next clip begins. It's a video shot in what looks like third grade. This time, it's at the hospital. It must be from when Craig and Tweek fought. He's in a medicine-induced coma, but he looks as if he's sleeping. I'm sitting in the chair at the edge of his bed. I look exhausted, to say the least. My brown hair appears shades darker from the grease, the dark circles under my eyes look almost sunken into my face. My clothes are wrinkly and dirty. It looks as if I hadn't slept in days, like I hadn't even left the bedside. It looked as if I would pass out at any moment; yet I remained at Craig's bedside with his books on my lap, talking to him and going through all of the schoolwork he had missed.

My eyes are frozen on the screen. There is a lot of noise, mostly people talking. At the very bottom of the screen, there are the heads of random people. Behind peoples heads, the elementary school's stage is visible. My whole class of eighteen was standing on the stage, wearing graduation caps and gowns, smiling as if there were no tomorrow. I find myself standing next to Craig and Tweek. There is static on the screen, and a second later Craig, Tweek, Kyle, Stan, Kenny and I are standing in the back hallway. We were telling each other crazy stories of the things we'd gotten into in elementary school, and laughed when Stan said we were lucky we survived.

Sixth grade year, Craig's room. There's _no way_ he actually put this on there. But, of course, there it is. Craig, Tweek, and I were standing on Craig's bed wearing pants at least five sizes too large, imitation Gucci sunglasses, hightop nikes, and plastic 'bling.' It was just another one of those crazy nights where we stayed up far too late and drank way too much caffine. Craig, standing in the center, was smirking in a way that you could see his gum-wrapper grills. And, of course, right on cue, background music started and we began imitating 'thugs.' I mean, what kind of thug _doesn't_ have books and a guniea pig in their room? _This is the last thing I thought would ever make me sad._

The next clip was shot after our eighth grade graduation. Me, Craig, and a few other guys from school went out for pizza at Shakey's. There was, as usual, Cartman's racist jokes and Kyle's angry retorts. There wasn't much going on, but a few words got stuck in my mind. "You guys, I couldn't have made it here without you." Everyone eyeballs Stan, who is standing in the corner of the room, watery eyes and sad face.

Freshman year, Craig, Kevin, and I were at a debate. We had all joined the debate team after realizing how good at arguing we were. The rest of the guys gave us shit, saying that we were going to turn into some of the ugly kids and calling us nerds. But we didn't care, because at least we still had the other two, and we were doing what we wanted to do. We were using some big words and sayings that I can no longer comprehend.

Screen static.

Later in the same year, at one of Bebe's parties. Before the camera focused, I could hear Craig telling someone to stop. He sounded pretty worried. When the camera's focus was finally right, you could make out a few figures in a dark room. There were four people up front, on a couch. Bebe, Red, Token, and I were on the couch, smoking something out of a pipe. Craig never has liked drugs, so he was obviously worrying about me. He was standing on the right end of the couch, behind me, trying to drag me from the couch and telling me that I need to go home. I was so far gone that I just laughed. I think I was beyond the point of walking. Finally, Craig is shown with me over his shoulder, walking towards the door. I was struggling, trying to get down, but Craig wouldn't let me. The door is slammed and the camera pans back towards a group of partying teenagers.

The next thing that shows on the screen scares me. It's me. I'm lying on a white bed, unconscious. There is the sound of sirens, along with smart-people talk. I look lifeless; there is blood on my face, and my clothes are mangled. I don't remember what happened to me. Then I hear a voice, "We're sorry, we don't think he's going to make it, Mr. Tucker." The camera is now facing my best friend. _Holy shit._ Is he crying? Craig Tucker, crying? It seems so impossible. "But... but... he has to!" Another voice sternly says, "Sir, you're going to have to put the camera away."

In the next shot, there is a hospital. However, instead of a very distraught third grade Clyde next to the bed, there is a very lifeless, teenaged Clyde lying in the bed. There are what seems like hundreds of tubes surrounding me, sticking into my body. I'm wearing a white gown, and my skin looks almost transparent. My hair is greasy, my face is sunken and thin, my bones seem to be showing through my skin. On the bedside, Craig is staring at the floor. He isn't moving much at all, except for him fumbling with his fingers. He doesn't look good at all. But slowly, people begin to fill the room. Almost all of my classmates are standing around the small room. A high-pitched voice, one that I believe to be Wendy Testaburger's, says, "Craig, I know you're worried about him, but you really should go home for a while." He snaps out of his trance, and with an angered expression, he spits, "I'm not leaving my best friend to die here."

Next shot, it's my welcome home party. I can barely remember it. There is a banner hanging above my living room doorway that reads, "Welcome home, Clyde." All of my classmates are in the room, smiling at me and making small talk. Craig and I are having a conversation, although I'm not sure what we're talking about. I seem to be doing fine, but that's before I went to the bathroom. After my return from the bathroom, I look scary. My eyes are bloodshot, and I'm laughing at nothing. I can hardly walk. Craig looks hurt, almost on the verge of tears.

Several photos show on the screen, one after another of me messed up on whatever it was that night. In one picture, I'm a happy looking, chubby teenager. In the next, my eyes are bloodshot and I seem to have lost weight. Throughout the pictures, my hair and skin get more and more disgusting as I get thinner and thinner. Several hospital shots and photos of me unconscious flash across the screen.

The montage stops, and I'm left speechless. If I'm dreaming, this is a nightmare; and even if I'm not, this is the worst nightmare I've ever had. I turn and see that all of my classmates are either in tears or are on the verge of it, even Cartman has a single tear on his cheek. Craig looks at me and sighs. "I want my best friend back," are the only words he can manage to say before he begins sobbing uncontrollably.

I stand up and head for the door. Everyone stares as I cross the room, confused and broken looks across their faces. I open the door, face full of tears. They don't understand what it's like to be an addict. They don't realize that it's not easy to change. None of them understand me.

But for Craig's sake, and the others, I'm going to do this. I'll go get whatever help I can get, and I'll be back to normal. It'll take time, but Clyde Donovan is coming back. I'll no longer be the empty shell of a once happy person, I'll be back to that little boy with a real smile and the best friends that anyone can have.

I can't take back my past, but I can change my future.

I flash a smile to my friends, and nod towards Craig. I don't need to say words, he knows what I'm saying. I quietly speak two words, "Thank you." And I swear, in all my years I've known him, that was the happiest I've ever seen Craig Tucker.


	4. I'm Alone

It's the same every night. The yelling, the screaming, the hitting: it never seems to have an end. However, the second you try to stand up to protest to them, you get a middle finger shoved in your face. The second you make some miniscule mistake, such as getting anything lower than a B on a test or you come home a few minutes late, your parents will go apeshit on you, and you'll probably gain some new bruises from your father; but when they come home drunk and forget all about picking your little sister up and you try to remind them, well, you're bound to gain some new bruises anyways. That's the Tucker family curse.

And I, my friend, am a Tucker. Craig Tucker, to be exact.

You think your family is bad? Come live with mine, that should change your mind. My family is one that seems so normal and sophisticated to the public eye, but are complete psychopaths behind closed doors. In public, my parents call me, "Craig, sweetie;" at home, they call me, "You ungrateful little asshole!"

I'm an ungrateful little asshole, just because I'm a little more concerned about doing my homework so I can go to college, instead of picking up my little sister from her piano recital? Oh, and should I mention that they would have been perfectly able to do it, had they not chugged down a gallon of vodka and coke beforehand. So, to my parent's misfortune, they have to call my aunt to pick her up. And do you want to know what they tell her? They tell her that they're helping me with my homework; and soon after they hang up the phone, they're taken over by a drunken rage, and decide to hit me with whatever nearby object they can find. Which, mind you, happened to be my sister's wooden softball bat.

I'm an ungrateful little asshole, just because I'm concerned about my life and my future, and I won't go out of my way for my parents when they get too shitfaced to care about their children.

But anyways, my parents are constantly drinking, and Ruby hates me. Ruby is "daddy's little girl" and "mommy's princess." Ruby is everything they wanted in a child, apparently; and I guess I'm the opposite. She does everything she can for mom and dad. She's too naive to understand that the more they can get away with it and the less responsibilities they have to deal with, the more they're going to drink. I've tried to tell her that more than once, but every time I open my mouth, I'm greeted with, "What would you know, assmuncher?" So, naturally, I flip her off in defense. She'll flip me back off, and then she'll make it out to our parents like I was doing something wrong. She totally makes up a bullshit lie, which, ninety percent of the time, gets me beaten.

Every day when I go to school, I feel like I have to hide. I feel like I can't show any emotion, because I'm so used to keeping everything pent up inside of me. Everyone seems to think I'm a 'badass.' They honestly seem to think I have no emotion, and for that, they look up to me. I must put on a pretty awesome facade, because not even my best friend can see through it. Even my best friend thinks I'm this tough guy that doesn't get hurt by anything. They just assume I don't care.

It's ridiculous, really. I've never met a person who has no emotions. Just because I never let them see me with my guard down, and just because I never let them see me cry... that doesn't mean it never happens. Just because I never let them see me happy, which I am not, they assume that I'm some asshole that's just too full of himself for his own good. Just because I don't let them know about my grades in school, or anything, for that matter, they think I don't care. They don't see my bruises, they don't know the reasons why. _Just because they can't see inside my soul, that doesn't mean it isn't there; and just because they can't see my pain, that doesn't mean I have no heart._

I'll be honest, I used to be a nice kid. I was one of those people that you could depend on, one of those people that would help you out even if I couldn't help myself. But, that was before I was ten. After that, I began to avoid a lot of people, except for Clyde and the other guys in our group. I tried to stay away from teachers, and people that I wasn't very close to. I started making excuses to not go places, mainly because my parents were drunk as hell and attempting to break my door down, just so they could smack me around. I wouldn't look at my friends, I would only speak when neccisary. They all thought I was being an asshole; they didn't realize I was only trying to protect myself.

Miraculously enough, I barely lost any friends. Apparently, they thought 'my I-don't-care phase' was cool. It drives me insane that they think I don't care; to be honest, I probably care a lot more than all of the kids in South Park combined. But it isn't like any of these dimwitted people pay enough attention to anything about a person, other than their reputation and who they've fucked. No one pays enough attention to know who the real Craig Tucker is.

Although I have friends, I'm alone. I feel completely, one-hundred percent, alone.

When Kyle Broflovski got found out he was ranked third in our class, he went absolutely ballistic. He had been struggling to get better grades than the boy genius Gregory for years, but had never quite succeeded; however, he had gotten very close. When everyone in the class (except for me) compared their grade point averages, they discovered that no one's fit between Gregory's and Kyle's. Bebe pointed a finger in my direction and said, "What about Craig?" to which, not suprisingly, Clyde said, "Nah, he doesn't care about school."

Sometimes, after school, the football coach has open scrimmage. Any of the guys can come to play, and most of them did. I, however, was not one of those people. Sure, I liked football just fine... but playing football after school wasn't my thing. I usually spent my time after school doing homework, and then dealing with my parents whenever they decided to come home. However, on this day, I didn't have any homework. When we were playing, a weak (yet workable) pass was thrown in my direction. I was in the open, so I ran as fast as I could, and scored a touchdown for my team. These scrimmages are full-uniformed, and it's difficult to tell who the person beneath the helmet is; for the most part, the guys memorize and claim numbers. I picked a completely random uniform and put it on in solitude. Anyways, after I scored that touchdown, Stan took a look over and said, "Who's number 65?" Kyle, his best friend, replied, "Is it Craig? I mean, most of the other guys except for the melvins already play." To this, Stan said nothing other than, "No, it couldn't be. Craig doesn't care for football."

One time, I was caught in the bathroom. No, believe me, it isn't what you think. I was in the bathroom, on the stall floor, crying because Clyde was in the hospital yet again. I don't cry in front of people, especially not in school. I hadn't thought to lock the door, and it was well into third period. Obviously, some faculty member or another would be out and about looking for me; but for some reason, it didn't occur to me that that would be the first place they would look. I was so entranced by my thoughts that I didn't hear the footsteps approaching my stall, and I was only snapped out of it when the door began to open. When I looked up to see who it was looking for me, I saw a very shocked looking Mr. Mackey. After a split second, his facial expression returned to normal and he said, "You can't go skippin' class because you're havin' issues, m'kay?" His facial expression read as calm, but the look in his eyes spoke for him. They were saying, "There's no way this is that Tucker boy."

I had put food in Kenny's locker for as long as I can remember. Not much, I know; but as much as I can. If my parents catch me 'stealing their food,' I'm going to have hell to pay. But it was well worth the risk. I think he knew it was me, and I hope that it helped him out a little before he, well, y'know... passed away. Everyone went to the funeral, and everyone found it hard to believe when I stood in front of everyone to talk about him.

According to the guys, when I was actually doing my homework or getting attacked by my parents, I was 'busy at home, jacking off to Red Racer.' And when I came to school and they saw a black eye or a cut, I was 'off getting in fights last night, so I ditched the guys.' And another ridiculous, yet believed by my friends, scenario is that 'I go out to buy and sell drugs in Denver, so I'm too busy for the guys anymore.' Yeah, right, I would never fucking touch that stuff! If you think I would, you've obviously never met my best friend; either that, or you think that's exactly why I would.

When I'm at school, I'm forced to wear long sleeves, long pants, and my signature chullo. I have to cover up my face with some of my little sister's make-up. Yes, I _have_ to do this. I'm not allowed to leave the house if I don't. And even then, I won't look directly at people and I won't speak. If I do or say the wrong thing, they'll know: and if they find out, there's no more Craig.

And as if being abused by my family and misunderstood by my friends isn't enough, I had to deal with my best friend being a drug addict and an alcoholic. I had to sit through school, watching him trip over his own feet and throw up in the bathrooms, just because we were all too cowardly to do something about it. When he would end up in the hospital, I had to go home to an extra beating, because no matter how hard they tried to force me away, I wouldn't leave his bedside. He just wasn't the same person anymore; I guarantee you, had it not been for drugs, Clyde would have realized that something was wrong a long time ago. (Luckily enough for me, though, Clyde had been released from rehab just a few days ago.)

School's hard to deal with, I'll tell you that, but it's when I get home that the real trouble begins.

On the days my parents don't go out and get wasted, (which aren't very often,) it starts when I walk in the door. "Craig, do the dishes." I have homework. "Craig, clean your room." I cleaned my room yesterday. "Craig, go walk the dog." Ruby can do it. Of course, I'd never say these things out loud. On the occasions that I do, my parents go apeshit. They'll yell at me, call me about every name possible, and occasionally hit me. However, it isn't their sober fits that I'm really worried about; what really gets to me is their drunken rage. When they're drunk, they'll tell me to do outrageous things for them. Things they should do themselves. When they get to drinking, they try to make Ruby and I do everything for them; Ruby obeys, I do not... not so often as Ruby, at least. That is why I have so many bruises, cuts, scars; that's why I'm up all night crying, afraid to close my eyes. That's why I'm such a recluse. That's the truth.

They'll come home drunk and give both Ruby and I ridiculous orders. If they aren't obeyed, my home turns into a fist-fest. My parents scream obscenities, Ruby runs to her room, and I'm caught in the middle; they use me as their personal punching bag. Suddenly, my name has gone from 'Craig' to 'asshole,' 'bastard,' 'worthless,' and so many other things. At first, it's just flying hands. I'm punched in the gut, smacked in the face, and clawed until I bleed. But that's not it, no; my parents are insistant that throwing things fixes the problem. So, naturally, whatever is in their path comes flying in my direction. Whether it's a basketball or a lamp, it's bound to smash - either off of my head, or from the impact to the wall. And then, the glass starts flying. My mother will throw glass plates at the ground, then she will pick up a rather large piece, and she'll chase me. She chases me until she gets too dizzy and passes out on the floor. However, my dad isn't done yet: he grabs me by the shirt collar and throws me to the ground. I try to move, I try to get out of the way, and I try so hard to squirm out of his reach; but the man shows no mercy. He'll kick me in the sides, throw me down stairs, hit my face. He won't stop until there's blood shed. I just like to think that they're too drunk to know what they're doing, and they probably are. But one thing's for sure: if I'm not lucky to be alive, I don't know who is.

RIIIIIIIIING

When the hell did I get to school?

"Craig, what's wrong with you?"

I look at myself on the large mirror in the hallway and my first thought is 'oh, fuck.' There's no way for me to avoid it now. There's a fresh, deep cut right beneath my cheek bone, and I have two black eyes. My eyes are bloodshot and puffy from crying, and there are bruises around my neck. There are scratches and bruises on my arms, and there is a blood stain near the collar of my shirt.

I decide to think out loud for a second, "Oh, fuck!"

"Craig, seriously. What the fuck happened?" I don't need a face to know who it is; it's my second closest friend, Token. "I'm serious, dude. You've been acting weirder than usual lately, and now this?" Now I look up at Token, only to see Clyde and Tweek standing on either side of him.

"You guys, there's something I need to tell you. Come on, we're ditching class."

Not even Tweek had a conspiracy theory for this, and not even Clyde was whining about not getting to see his 'smokin' first hour teacher.

I can hear the guys' scuffling footsteps following close behind as I exit the building. I keep walking, far away from school. The guys say nothing. No 'where are we going,' no 'my feet are tired,' no nothing. But I pick a bench across the street from Bennigan's to sit.

I take a look at the guys. Clyde looks terrified and guilty, as if he thinks this is his fault; Token, on the other hand, just looks sad and confused. I can't help but notice how Tweek's frown is even larger than usual. He isn't twitching at all, which scares me.

I take in a deep breath, "You guys, I have something to tell you," Token raises an eyebrow, urging me on, "I'm being abused."

Clyde looks down, "How long?"

"Since I was ten." I see shock in all of their eyes.

"Ten? You've been hiding this since you were TEN and none of us noticed? Ohgod." Tweek looks panicked; but then again, he's Tweek, when doesn't he look panicked? However, he looks a lot more serious now than I've ever seen him before.

"How serious is it?" Token asks, clearly the calmest of the guys.

"Well, when they're sober, they just yell at me and don't let me eat. Sometimes they'll hit me, but it's nothing too bad. When they're drunk, it's a completely different story. Y'see, I get things thrown at me, hit with things, chased with glass, kicked, thrown down stairs, yelled at, and left to bleed. Sometimes Ruby frames me for things I didn't do, and my parents beat me more. And all of this happened last night."

"Oh, my God." Clyde shakes his head, "Oh. My. God." Token and Tweek are speechless. They say nothing, they just look at me with sympathetic eyes.

"I'm sorry, I had no idea." Token looks more heartbroken than he did when Wendy dumped him. Tweek and Clyde both have tears in their eyes; Tweek is trying to be the man of the two and hide it.

I sit there on that bench for hours, just talking about my problems. They're listening to me, and I've never felt better in my life. They don't say much; they just sit and listen to me. I guess they've finally realized how much I need them. This feels-

A car horn. _Holy fucking shit, please let this be a dream. _I look up to see my parents in their SUV, looking slightly pissed off.

"Craig, why aren't you at school? It's one thirty! Get in the car." I look at the guys, they look scared. "You boys need to get to school, as well. I won't lie to your parents." They stand up and start walking back in the direction of the school. There's nothing scarier than a stern, female voice - especially that of a mother.

My parents are speeding, now; they are well over the speed limit, but they're too mad to care. We pull into the driveway, and I run inside of the house. I try to make it to my room, but my dad grabs me instead. I'm thrown to the ground, and I can smell the burning stinge of whiskey on his breath. _Isn't it a little early for that? _Before I realize what's going on, my mother is beside him, holding a metal studded belt. _Fuck, no._

"Why the FUCK were you out of the house looking like that? What the fuck were you doing with your friends, not at school, bruises visible to EVERYONE, you stupid little bastard!" I feel stinging across my ribs, and the impact of metal to the gut leaves me breathless. "You arrogant little asshole! You son of a bitch! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING?" The stinging continues, I feel tears welling up in my eyes. "You goddamned worthless piece of trash! You've really done it now." Strike, strike, strike. One after another, the lashes seem to be neverending. However, the cracking noise of metal against flesh is no longer heard; there are bloody spots soaking through my shirt, and I find it hard to breathe.

Now, it's my father's turn.

"Dad, PLEASE STOP!" Now I'm crying. "Don't you fucking call my that, you little bitch!" A steel-toed boot to the side, what a lovely feeling. "All you ever do is go against your mother and I! How fucking dare you do this! We do EVERYTHING for you and you treat us like we're SHIT!" He kicks me repeatedly. "YOU DON'T FUCKING DESERVE PARENTS LIKE US, you goddamned maggot!" After about three more solid minutes, he stops his violent action.

"Do you see what you make us do, Craig? It's all because we love you, honey." My mother's falsetto sweet voice. I'm crying on the floor, too afraid to open my eyes.

"You do NOT love me."

"HOW FUCKING DARE YOU SAY THAT? What would you know!" And there it is again. I feel something striking my back, but I don't bother to see what it is. It doesn't matter, anymore.

After about thirty minutes of screaming and smacking and hitting, I open my eyes. I realize now that it's my mother standing over me with a rolling pin, and in the doorway, I can make out a small, female figure. It has to be Ruby.

"Ruby...please... HELP me!" I continue to look, hopeful for my sister to find a little good in her heart, attempting to ignore the strikes of pain I feel.

"DON'T you ask your sister to help you! SHE has nothing to do with this! SHE'S actually a good daughter. You, you're just WORTHLESS!" I feel a heavy weight being pressed to my side, but I feel nothing more than cracking ribs. I scream in pain. I writhe and cringe, but nothing will stop my father when he's mad. At last, he picks up his foot to walk away, but not before kicking me twice in the legs.

I'm now in fetal position, practically begging, "Ruby, PLEASE. Please Ruby. I'll do anything!"

"Fuck you, assmuncher! You're just getting what you deserve." She smirks, but has an unsure look in her eyes.

So I stop. I give up, and I lie there, crying. After a while, they all leave. I'm not sure where they're going, but I heard the car pull out from the driveway. I turn to lie on my back: a very painful move, but much more comfortable. I wonder if I'm going to make it to be an adult. I wonder if all of my hard work has been for nothing. I wonder how Clyde and the guys will make it without me... NO! I will not die! I use every ounce of strength I have to call 911, but I cannot talk. I cannot speak into the reciever, but I know help will come soon. I just have to hold on... Just hold... on...

I have just one more set of thoughts before the blackness takes over. If I'm to walk away from this, in which direction do I go with my life? How will I deal with this? But more importantly, where will I go? They say home is where your heart lies; but where, exactly, do you go when your heart is broken? What do you do when you're trying to find every piece of your heart, and you're not so sure where it lies? But most of all, where do you go when home isn't where you belong?

I wake up in the hospital, full of tubes; but somehow, I'm pulling through. I see nobody in my room, well, nobody except for Clyde. He's on the left side of my bed, passed out in an armchair. _How long have I been here? _

I look at Clyde, and I realize how unkempt he looks. I see dark circles under his eyes, and his hair is a greasy mess. I realize that his clothes are the same clothes he was wearing the last time I saw him; however, now they are much dirtier. By his side, there is a pile of books. From the looks of them, they're mine. There are plates stacked on a small table in the corner of the room, and I notice that Clyde is holding my hat in his hands. I can't help but crack a slight smile of the irony; a few months ago, he was in my condition, and I was in that chair. But now, it's the other way around.

But when I flip to face the other direction, I see a very jittery Tweek curled up on a couch cushion. He is asleep, but barely. Token is dead out on the floor, wrapped up in a white hospital blanket. Kyle is reading some sort of novel on the floor, under the light of a small lamp. Stan and Cartman are both sitting with their backs against the wall, whispering about someting. I take notice that even Butters and Pip are here, playing some kind of board game, but not looking the least bit happy. Kevin Stoley is playing a game (which I'm guessing to be Star Wars) on his PSP, and even the fucking antichrist is here. There is the over-smart British kid, Gregory, staring at the floor; I'm not sure if he's sleeping or if he's awake, so I just look away. Christophe is sitting Indian-style in the middle of the floor, intently staring at whatever manuel he has sitting in front of him. Suprisingly, Wendy, Bebe, Esther, Red, and Millie are here as well. They're gossiping about something by the door, sitting atop a pink fuzzy blanket. I'll never understand girls.

I didn't notice the nurse walking in, but I looked at her right as she touched my arm.

"Oh, sweetie, you're awake. The kids were worried you were never going to wake up. Do you know how long it's been?" She's whispering in a singsong voice. I shake my head no, since I cannot speak with this tube in my throat. "Well, it's December." Uh, WHAT? I'm guessing I looked the way I felt, because the nurse whispers, "Now don't panic, honey. You've been in a coma, but you don't seem to have any lasting issues." I nod my head yes, and the nurse says, "We couldn't get the kids to leave. Ever since winter break began, they've all been camping out in your room. For whatever reason, the staff allows them to stay. It's cute, actually." I say nothing, I just try to smile. She adds, "Ring if you need anything." With another nod, the nurse turns and walks away. I sit in stupor, still confused by the fact that it's been over four months.

I make grunting noises to get the attention of my classmates. Apparently, it works, because in less than ten seconds, all of my classmates are gathered around the bed.

"Oh my God, Craig, I missed you so much!" Clyde basically attacks me into a bear hug. My friends fill me in on every detail of what I've missed: tests, dances, football games, new couples, new students, whatever.

I look around, and I see that every one of them is smiling. Except for the antichrist, of course, but he seems to be content with the fact that he doesn't have to bother with another soul.

And it is then that I realize, I've never really been alone.


End file.
